


Fireside

by Leigh_B



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternative Universe- Avvar Tribe Life, Alternative Universe- No Rifts or Anchor, Avvar, Avvar Gods, Dragon Age AU, F/M, Hakkon Wintersbreath - Freeform, Head Cannon, Imhar, Imhar the Clever, Korth, Korth the Mountain-Father, LOTS of Headcannon, Rilla, Rilla of the Fireside, The Lady of the Skies, alternative universe, slowburn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:29:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leigh_B/pseuds/Leigh_B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's spent her life hearing scary stories of the heathen wild men in the Ferelden mountains who steal women for brides and worship at blasphemous pagan alters. Displaced by the mage rebellion and lost in the barren Frostbacks, Anwen is left with only one choice. She must do whatever she can to become what the Avvar of Greyed Bear Hold need her to be: one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pouting in Too Big Boots

**Author's Note:**

> Alright. I'm not gonna' sugarcoat this, I'm taking many liberties here. Please bear with me. The information on Avvar ways of life that Bioware has actually corroborated is spotty at best. This is an Alternate Universe fic. If you find some choice I make about the Avvar people or my characterization of Cullen and his siblings as being Avvar absolutely abhorrent, please let me know!!! Keep in mind, the things that I'm changing about this universe involve only the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Everything in Origins and II has happened accordingly. The rebellion on the parts of both the Circle and the Templar Order have also occurred. However, Cullen, his family, and a few others I will introduce along the way have altered origins to suit the needs of this story. Thank you for taking interest in my efforts!

These wretched mountains were clearly located in the Maker's blind-spot. That was the only explanation for the vindictive nature of the cold up here. It stung more sharply than a bee and with keener precision. It sliced easily through my robes and borrowed cloak. It knifed the edges of my lips and ears, and it scuffed the skin of my cheeks, nose, and hands until they were swollen. Night was not far off, and dusk brought with it a shriller wind. I shivered, rubbing one gloved hand over the other, focusing acutely on the physical sensations of rawness and pain.

 

Being pierced by cold and shredded by mountain winds was better than allowing myself to look inward long enough to cry more. I’d cried so much. It was sickening.

 

If I had considered news of the event in Kirkwall as having reach enough to pull the other Circles down alongside it, or perhaps if I hadn’t let myself become such a mess after First Enchanter Lydia informed me of her own departure from the Tower, or maybe if I had been more proactive in the beginning of our journey, physical as well as emotional discomfort would be a nonissue. My melancholy was soon flavored tart with selfish guilt.

 

Who was I to complain? My condition was still a nonissue after thinking of my own state in comparison to the five Templars accompanying me, or those of the several Ferelden knights and captured rebels that had joined our party. Particularly the Fereldens, who had been traveling from the heart of the Hinterlands with not one singular mount amongst the party of fifteen.

 

We had sold five of the six horses in an effort to slow to their pace more comfortably, though all five members of my guard had insisted that I continue to travel mounted on one of the Trevelyan steeds my father had gifted to the Circle’s stables. My guards also had balms and the efforts of my healing to soothe the sores of rough travel in unfamiliar terrain. The Ferelden Templars couldn’t trust the mages with them for assistance, and their salves had been used up a week ago. I’d tried to put forth the idea of extending them some supplies and healing, but Knight-Lieutenant Kipling split my sentence with an outright refusal, going so far as to refer to the other group of Templars as “savages.”

 

My guilt and sadness was quickly accompanied by humiliation and hurt. I hadn’t the slightest idea why his curtness had cut me so deeply. It had been days since he’d snapped at me, and the snapping wasn’t even truly _at_ me. My parents had entrusted him to keep me safe, and he always had. It wasn’t me with whom he was upset. It was just the circumstances making everyone short. The man was exhausted. Plus, we didn’t know any of the men or women in the other party. Keeping them at a distance was a safety measure. In these troubled times, even Templars were being commonly reported as perpetrators of dastardly offenses.

In spite of the fact that he hadn’t rejected their proposal of traveling to Haven together, the Knight-Lieutenant was treating all Templars outside of my guard with distrust. Utter disrespect in some cases of interaction that I’d seen. Since the vote had gone through in Val Royeaux to rebel, Lieutenant Kipling had been keeping both eyes and a second set on anyone interacting with me. And, if I was being entirely honest, it wasn’t just the captured rebels from the group traveling behind us who seemed underhanded. That group of Templars was suspiciously sparse of manners and lacking in self-control. I’d overheard Dawson gossiping to Warren about one of them having sold pieces of his armor to pay for an hour in the tavern.

 

They had refused to explain why the tavern would be charging per hour, rather than per drink. I was left to assume it was quite scandalous.

 

Thinking of this irked me, and soon irritation dominated the flurry of opposing emotion I was stewing upon the back of my horse. I wasn’t a child. I should know about how things worked outside of the Tower. I pinched at my chapped hands, trying to regain some practical thought.

 

“Lady?” the voice was gruff and hushed, struggling against the wind, but loud enough to begin drawing me out of my moping.

 

It belonged to Ser Warren. Young and clever, with a tendency toward overt laughter and repetitively knocking the shoulder of his armor into walls as a way to annoy the others in my guard, he had initially been very resentful of Ostwick’s Knight-Commander for directing him to my detail. He was newest, and had seemed absolutely horrified by the affection that I extended toward all of the Templars assigned to me. He responded by ignoring my presence completely for three whole days, even when I addressed him directly.

  
Soon though, the same way that Kipling, Dawson, Ronald, and Jarret had adjusted to being my guards, Warren fell into the happy rhythm of day to day life leading me about the Tower and keeping unauthorized mages away from me. They were like a group of older brothers, only blessedly without all of the troublesome quirks and bullying. My guards were handpicked by my parents and purchased through donations to the Circle, the Order, and the Chantry. The only time I had ever spent without them involved extended visits from my actual brothers. If it was just my mother visiting, my guard typically stayed.

 

I trusted their judgement. If they thought that I didn’t need to know why a man would pay a tavern hourly, I probably didn’t need to know. Just as approaching the group trudging along behind us was as dangerous as Kipling seemed to think it.

 

“Lady Trevelyan?” Warren repeated himself, slowing down so that the point of my horse’s shoulder bumped his back.

 

I leaned down, brushing my cheek against the warm neck of my horse, Jerry. The sudden heat and the texture of fur caused the chap on my face to burn. “Yes, Ser Warren?”

 

“We should stop soon. Would you prefer to tuck into the tree line, or remain in the open?”

 

“Why are you asking me?” I posed, confused. He grinned at me.

 

“Tree line it is, then.”

 

“What?”

 

Warren let go of Jerry’s reins, leaving my horse to plod along on his own, much like the pace of my thoughts. The young man jogged ahead to Lieutenant Kipling, said a few things to him, and then the whole group was given the signal to halt. I shifted my weight back, letting Jerry know to be still.

 

“We make camp in the trees,” Kipling motioned toward the patch of forest jutting to the side of the path. “Dawson, go and alert the other group. Inform them that we have claimed the tree line, and they are welcome to camp elsewhere. The little Lady is tired.”

 

I pouted. Leave it to Warren to use me as an excuse to camp early. If _he_ had complained about fatigue, Lieutenant Kipling would have told him to buck-up and carry a heavier pack.

 

Clever, indeed.

 

The making of camp always seemed to look a mess. All five armored men scuttling to and fro collecting various supplies, pitching tents, unpacking and repacking bags in order to select the gear needed for the task at hand. In fact, they always seemed to most securely repack the bags that they would need to revisit in the shortest amount of time. As if to illustrate my thoughts, I watched Warren shove everything back into a large pack after removing a tinderbox, then return in less than a minute to toss everything out once more in search of a flint striking stone. All of this was done at a pace near frantic, with no obvious reason to rush. I hated when it was time to make camp.

 

They didn’t give me any jobs, so I just stood there, with Jerry, doing nothing.

 

This stop was no different. They’d tucked my horse and I behind a small crag out of the wind, then proceeded to ignore us. All of my guard flitted about in a nervous tizzy while I stood mutely observing their mildly inefficient choices, huddling close to my horse for warmth. My mind wandered, tired and with a lack of focus, over the events of the last three months or so in commute. First there was gathering my things and leaving the Tower for the first time since I was ten, which had been a nightmare. Then a sail over the fitful Waking Sea, which had been the monster in the nightmare. And now, it was edging over two weeks of straight, muddy, cold, dog-smelling Ferelden marching.

 

Ferelden was the breath of the monster in the nightmare. While my metaphor perhaps lingers too far along, it is certainly an apt description of the land. Right off of the docks, the smell of Ferelden just slaps into your sinuses. The rumors of cheese, Mabari, and mud hadn’t really been rumors. This country was _pungent_.

 

I had worn out my best pair of boots quickly, and now leather slumps that were far too large pooled around my ankles, as they did not fit against my calves. My body hurt all over in various places for various reasons, none of which could truly be helped. I wanted to go home to my Tower where I could survey the growing of my medicinal herbs, read a chapter of my favorite book, and then take a long hot soak in my stone bath. I didn’t want to hurt all over from cold and exhaustion. I didn’t want to be outside. I didn’t want to smell like sweat and grime and dirt and Ferelden yuck. My eyes stung as I kicked a rock out from under my too big boot.

 

Jerry huffed, flicking his tail just perfectly as to snap against the back of my head. A few of the sly hairs at the edge of his tail got in a sharp whip against my exposed neck. I gasped, rubbing the newly made sore and stomping up toward his face so that I could peg my horse with a wounded stare.

 

“That was rude,” I sniffed, knocking my forehead against his jaw.

 

He made the same snuffle, lips reverberating off of each other to make an odd sound. In kind, he leaned his head toward mine, the slightest amount of his weight baring against me. It was enough to let me know he was paying attention, and had noted my discomfort alongside his own. Or so I chose to believe. I patted the length of his face with a gentle hand, removing my glove and choosing to risk frostbite so that I could feel Jerry’s soft grey hide.

 

Disturbingly close, a clumsy skittering showered rocks down the edge of the crag. They fell with such force that their volume matched the hustle of my five fully armored men. A few small rocks bounced off of Jerry’s side, causing him to grow a bit spooked. He leaned away from me with an unusual swing to his head, taking some quick steps forward and leaving me alone beside the crag. The source area was a section of land where sparse shrubbery consolidated into a line of dense alpine trees. Their roots were just at chest level on the elevated surface of the overhanging rock. It was very odd. No one was standing up there. I’d have been able to see their boots.

 

Gooseflesh rose along my spine and shoulders as I continued to survey the trees. Horror stories of wild men, bandits, and apostates roared warnings in the recesses of my mind, and I shivered from more than cold, still searching. My gloveless hand tucked into a fold beneath my cloak. I sought my mother’s Andraste figurine and numbly ran my fingers against the oiled wooden surface for comfort as I mumbled an old family prayer beneath my breath.

 

I was being silly. It was probably just a Templar from the other group gathering some firewood. Or an animal of some kind.

 

“Little Lady-“

 

“Oh!” I squeaked. Kipling’s voice, deep and thick with the accent of Starkhaven, startled me.

 

He chuckled softly, patting my shoulder in a reassuring way. “Your tent is prepared, and you should rest.”

 

I sighed, giving him a nod while my hand clasped the figure in my pocket tightly. He led me with gentle pressure away from the unnerving patch of forest and toward our camp, now fiercely glowing in the dim evening due to one of Warren’s notoriously large fire pits. Several of the men had begun to remove pieces of their armor, a further signal to me that I should not feel any unease. If there were something to be afraid of, my guard would not be so calm.

 

My eyes stuck to Jarret. He was a barrel shaped man well into his forties. Despite the thickness of his build, he was the most graceful in the removing of his plate mail. He seemed to casually slouch the heavy layers away from his shoulders with absolutely no sound. As I pondered Jarret’s peculiar poise, staring intently at a now exposed section of thin cotton layers over his lumbering shoulder, an arrowhead burst through his throat with a violent surge of gore.


	2. Make No Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! I finally got the second chapter out. Jeez...it sure took me long enough. Thanks so much to Golden_Halla, Loviisa, Dolce_latte, and Sharon_dArc for the Kudos. A special thank you to my Beta-reader and friend, MsMoon. Hopefully, I won't be so slow with the following updates to this story. Also thank you to the three guests that peeped in and left Kudos. I appreciate all of you.

I had never been silenced before. I’d never even _seen_ a mage be silenced. There was a possibility that the rapscallion Ferelden Templar hadn’t even silenced me. However, due to the fact that I was left without the ability to inhale and convulsing desperately on the ground, I was going to assume that it was a silence she’d casted on me.

 

Silences hurt more than I had imagined.

 

It felt as if someone had shoved a burning hot hearthstone down my gullet. My vision was blurred beneath tears, and I struggled to cough around the searing lump in my throat. I could feel patches of skin catching and ripping against the solid mass inside of me. Amidst my flailing, a new and vicious pain sliced clean and cold up my left leg. She’d cut me with her sword. I screamed noiselessly, arching against the onslaught of agony and trying to roll away from my attacker.

 

My body tumbled clumsily across rocks, and when a sizeable protrusion slammed into the soft parts of my belly, I vomited up the incorporeal stone along with the remnants of my last snack. On reflex, I drank in a breath that threw me into spasms. It tore through to my lungs, shredding across my tender throat. The quickness and frost of the air set fire to the sparks of bile that had seeped into the wounds within my esophagus. I considered resisting my second breath, but it was an instinct. I sucked in another terrible heave, then further caused myself harm with a sob.

 

“Run! Run, lass. GO!”

 

It was Kipling. My eyes darted toward his voice. He’d engaged the redheaded woman who’d attacked me, and he was losing. Our eyes caught, and I knew that he understood this.  

 

Another cry rose from me as I thrashed to my feet. The leg wound was shallow. If it was on another, I could have healed it in a handful of moments, but I didn’t have the time to sort through the complications of channeling my magic into my own flesh. I fled, limping hastily upward into denser forest and away from the morbid clamor of a battle my men weren’t going to win. A sharp wail rose behind me, and I recognized Warren in it.

 

The terrain was unforgiving, the half-glow of late dusk did my unseasoned teary eyes little good, and I had to support parts of my weight against trees as I stumbled blindly forward, cries wracking my abused frame. I tried to quiet myself, but it pulled too much of my attention away from moving up the slope, and I fell. Exposed earth bit my face as my hair tore out of its tie, sticking in the trees’ thorny foliage. I didn’t stop to consider any new hurts, and just dragged myself upright and continued fumbling. There was crashing and shouting behind me, spiking my adrenaline and giving me a bit of an extra push through the trees. It wasn’t much of one.

 

A handful of my cloak was taken at the shoulder, and I was shoved through dense overgrowth face-down into a patch of snow. As quickly as I could, I tossed over onto my back to see who it was that had come to kill me. It was a stupid thing to do. What did it matter who it was? They would absolutely succeed. I barely skimped through my harrowing; I was no battle mage. I’d never touched entropy or spirit magic. Primal spells were more likely to blow up in my face than my attacker’s. I knew only healing spells and a few weak barriers. In aspects of physically defending myself, I was a joke! I’d just seen the passing of my twentieth birthday, but I had all the wherewithal of a toddler in terms of self-defense and coordination.  

 

All the same, in the scant seconds it took for me to maneuver into a suitable position for looking, I wondered. Was it the knight who’d sold his armor? Maybe it was one of the rebel mages in their party. I’d healed a handful of blisters for one of the Ferelden Templars. I hoped it wasn’t him. He’d smiled so gratefully, and he’d ruffled my hair in a way that made me think of my father. I didn’t want him to be the one who killed me.

 

I couldn’t see anyone. No flash of armor catching light, nor the illumination of a mage summoning magic. It was dark, and would have been silent if not for my labored, weepy breathing. Craning my neck forward and peering through the thicket, a relatively hearty branch snapped loudly with my movement. Out of nowhere, or seemingly so, a hand covered my startled squeal. In the tense few moments that followed, I acutely felt a chilly bead of perspiration tickle down from my hairline to pool against the thumb of my captor.

 

“Tch-shhh.” The sound was made against the roof of her mouth, hissing through her teeth. It was most definitely a woman. She was behind me, and she’d leaned forward enough to press her front against my back.

 

A melodious torrent of words followed. Beneath the whisper of her tone, it was clear that the vowels were round and the consonants crisp, harsh even. Alas, I didn’t understand any of what she’d said. I couldn’t recognize an accent or syntax, and that frightened me more than the prospect of being silenced in a more permanent fashion. My entire body shook. A new shot of adrenaline turned my pain and fear into a stimulant, leaving a curiously liquid, bone-less sensation reverberating through my limbs and torso.

 

I began to pray.

 

 _Bride of the Maker, and the Great One, Himself,_ please _: If I am to meet my end, allow me to understand the things being spoken. I’d like to hear my death before it comes. I know you care not for selfish requests, and my gratefulness should be freely given, but an inconceivable thankfulness would well in me, should this be so much as considered. Most earnestly, your humble servant thanks you._

The woman tilted my head back slowly, catching my nose in the crook between her thumb and forefinger. Her hand smelled like grease paint that I’d used on canvas a few months ago. A strong smell, it was indicative of chemicals and animal fat. My entire skeleton suddenly slammed back into existence when her eyes met mine. My spine straightened, my neck angling too severely while my face was still in her grasp.

 

All the light left in the dying day seemed drawn to her. Every detail of this woman’s countenance was illuminated, despite our shadowy hiding place. Her stare burned, bright and predatory, piercing through dark facial paint. Curls escaped a series of wild braids with chunks of bone, beads, and feathers strewn about in what appeared to be a measured pattern. Fangs were painted, dazzling white, in a grin that stretched from one ear to the other. Her expression was poignantly serious beneath the smirking rendered mask. All of this was seen upside-down, which added a trippy element to the entire matter.  

 

I strained my eyes trying to make sense of the image before me. She was certainly not one of the apostates from the Ferelden traitors, and the only woman Templar had been the redhead. Before my brain could actualize any terrifying conclusions, the woman faltered through a sentence in Orzammar Trade Speak. Her diction was terrible, and I hadn’t spoken the Dwarven language since the tower had assigned a group of Enchanters to deal in the lyrium and crafting and such that Orzammar offered. It was rusty for both of us, by the sound of it.   

 

“Not gonna’ kill you, _Foundling_. Just be no sound.”

 

Without even considering the repercussions, I angled my head away from her hand and corrected her in an even whisper. “Make…” I mumbled roughly, my raw throat garbling the word.

 

She cocked her head to one side, quirking a brow so heavily coated that creases formed in the dark paint on her forehead.

 

“Make no sound,” I phrased the statement correctly, using the proper inflections and a feminine verb as to suit the language.

 

“You hear these words?” A smile of her own stretched the frightening image of pointed teeth in a deeply disturbing way. I nodded. “Happy thing,” she said mildly, patting my shoulder with the hand that had been over my face. “Warriors once with you died. _Foundling_ can come with me, or die like them.”

 

My stomach lurched, and tears rushed in fresh. Oh, my poor men. “I’m…” I stumbled over the word, as it didn’t belong to Trade Speak and was of that strange lyrical language she had initially used. “ _Foundling_?”

 

She grunted an affirmative, nodding and tapping her forehead gently against mine. Some paint stuck to me. “With me, or them?”

 

She rested her forehead back against me when she caught sight of my tears. My neck ached from leaning back at such a severe tilt, and now groaned under supporting weight that was not my own. However, it was a comforting gesture, if odd. I was in torrents of pain, confused, scared, and wretchedly heartsick for the loss of my guards, but I wasn’t ready to die. I didn’t want to.

 

I should have.

 

All of those five wonderful men had died because they were with me. Some had been with me as long as I’d lived with my own blood family. Also, I was alone in a foreign country, a sea between me and a home that hadn’t been mine for a decade, with no proof of identity and not one copper left to my name. Jarret always carried the money. An erratic sensation rose in my chest, tasting of bile and tears. I was alone, useless as a mage, and foolish. What chances did I have _anywhere_ without my men?

 

But I _wanted_ to _live._

One of the woman’s thicker braids shifted, landing against my cheek. Over the grease paint, her hair smelled of embrium and home in the Tower, where my herbs grew near my bedside. A desire to turn and embrace her overcame me, and I took it as an answer.

 

“I stay with you.” I gave my reply in a near inaudible grimace. I had a few guesses at this point, but needed to hear for sure. “With you to what- people?” I didn’t know Trade Speak for the word “clan.” I could see it written, but I didn’t feel comfortable trying to pronounce it and possibly offending her.  

 

“Avvar,” she said this in full accent with pride dripping from the declaration, not removing her head from mine. “Clan of the Greyed Bear.”            


	3. He Smelled Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow...I really need to work on getting my updates out more quickly O .O. Anywho! Thanks go out to stellamayjune, SaloonMistress74, ADreamIsReality, and ChiaraCeilidh. Thanks so much for the Kudos~ I am really just so grateful for them. It's almost unhealthy. >. > Thanks also to the six new guests who've given me a fix of feel-goods!

The Avvar woman had basically carried me back to her clan’s hold. It seemed to be forever that we struggled through an unmarked mountain pass. The woman never glanced back to check for pursuers or spot our location. She knew exactly where we were going, and she knew no one was following. We had to stop often so that I could rest, and my entire left side remained supported by her for the duration of those breaks. In a manner of fortune, due to either shock or cold, I was too numb to feel anything but little aftershocks of the pain that had lingered since we’d been attacked.

 

 The slice in my leg was more severe than I’d thought, and at one point my companion tore out the underskirt of my Circle robe and wrapped it tightly around the thigh portion of the wound. It was deepest there, still seeping blood where the lower portion had begun to clot. The woman was patient, warm, and diligent about asking if I needed a rest. At one point, while I panted and leaned on her, she questioned me. It didn’t work out very well. It was difficult for me to focus. It felt like my thoughts were linens hung out on a line, blowing this way and that with the whims of the wind. I did, however, get her name.  

 

“How many years has the _foundling_ seen? Ten and five? Ten and six?”

 

I stalled for a moment. A fear that had been simmering in the corners of my mind boiled forward. She could leave me here to be found by either the Fereldens or hypothermia, whichever was first to catch me. She could also kill me herself. What if she wanted to hear that I was still in my middle teenage years? What if she was only helping me because she thought I looked like a child?

 

I decided to be honest. I wasn’t too much older than her guess anyhow. “Two tens…”

 

I used her odd numerical phrasing because I didn’t know if she understood that Trade Speak had a word for ‘ten and six’ as well as ‘two tens.’ It was a language made to deal in quantity and currency. It had a direct translation for sixteen and twenty. Not using the proper words made me itch. Old memories of the brutal Dwarven tutor probably _still_ torturing young Trevelyans ghosted through my head.

 

“Huh!” the woman moved a section of my hair, chunks of evergreen tangled within, back behind my shoulder. “Lowlanders are always little. They must feed you.”

 

I wrinkled my brow, staring at her. It was full dark now, and I couldn’t see her expressions well. Maybe she wouldn’t be able to see my confusion. I recognized the term lowlander, it was the following statement that left me muddled.

 

 “More? They must feed you more? You mean to imply that I do not eat enough?” I went into fluent sentences. Perhaps she understood more than she spoke.

 

She nodded, seeming to follow.

 

“I eat plenty!” I defended. Warren would tease me all the time about overeating and never losing my baby fat. It’s why my face stayed so round, he’d reasoned. It was also why I’d had to let my robes out not too long ago. I loved food, and my figure showed it... though traveling the last few months had certainly slimmed me down. The seasickness was mostly to blame.

 

The woman chuckled. It was a sound that felt rich and full. Though it was still dark, the moon’s dense cloudy veil had lifted. I could see the infectious way her quiet laughter traveled across her features. It drifted from her chest up her throat to the corners of her mouth before rising into her eyes, causing them to squint and crinkle closed happily. She was laughing at me, I knew, but something about it came off more tender than condescending. I wasn’t sure if it was her low tone or perhaps the pretty way her eyes peeked through her lashes as her amusement ebbed, but I returned a small smile back to her.

 

“Names then,” she pressed back into the questioning, beginning to pick bits of tree from my hair. “A name was given to you, and you are called by one.”

 

“Yes,” I nodded my head slowly, unsure how much of my parentage should be given away. Would the Avvar ransom me to my family? Would this woman continue helping me if she knew I was noble born? Perhaps she’d help me more…or not at all.

 

She chuckled again at my reluctance. “The name Mia was given. This is what I am called. What about the _foundling_?”

 

“Anwen,” I stated plainly, leaving off the noble title and my family name. Perhaps she wouldn’t recognize it, but I wouldn’t have guessed that a wild-person of the Frostbacks would know Trade Speak either. It seemed a safer bet to keep some things to myself until my leg was properly tended, and I had better footing with these people.

 

I perceived the separation between my given name and the name I preferred to go by in her questioning. Anwen wasn’t exactly something that I wanted to be called. It was too…too….it was just too much. I hadn’t really gone by anything but Lady Trevelyan in a long, _long_ time. Sometimes Little Lady, other times just Lady. It was hard to remember. My father had called me Filly, and my mother Darling. Had anyone _ever_ called me Anwen? No. My many cousins and siblings had always called my Winnie.

 

“People call me Winnie,” I specified, deciding quickly that I preferred it to my given name.

 

“Winnie!” she smiled fully at me, her eyes crinkling up in their corners once more, tangling her top and bottom lashes together. “Tastes sweet when said.” Her pleasant look and kind words drew another smile from me.

 

This strange conversation was the only miniscule bit of happiness I would experience for the rest of that night. When we broached the edges of what I assumed to be the Avvar hold, an old man was waiting for us. The moment Mia announced our arrival with a few clipped words, he’d pushed himself into my personal space and loomed over me. I tried to back away, but Mia held me in place. He grabbed my arm as he leaned in close, too close, and proceeded to smell me.

 

Oh, yes… _smell_ me. He took several deep inhales about my person and scented me like a hound. I was horrified. Then many things all happened very quickly. The smelling of me being the initial offense that set off the rest.

 

His voice, coarse like stones rolling, grumbled some words to Mia as his hand grew tight around my forearm. It was in the language that the woman had been using between choppy Trade Speak sentences. He made it sound guttural and harsh where she had sounded lilting.

 

Mia seemed to argue with him, drawing herself closer to me and exchanging some sharp words. A wild hope, fueled by fear, ran through me. Maybe she could promptly settle whatever worry this man had about me. Also, maybe she could get him to offer me some distance. He smelled of coppery animal blood and unwashed musk. It reminded me of the less than hygienic members of the Ferelden Templars, which made me think of our being attacked, which reminded me that my dearest and only friends were dead. I was very disconcerted with his presence and near retching again.

 

Also, I was clearly foolish as ever, having believed that this woman would protect me from this frightening old man. Mia did not save me. Instead, after one firm word, she dropped her head and stepped away from me. My full weight hit my injured leg like a second blow from the sword. I cried out, leaning away from my damaged side and even closer to the scary, smelly old guy. He didn’t waste any time either. As soon as I’d lurched away from my injury, he began dragging me further into camp.

 

“Mia!” I’d called. “What’s going on?! Who is this? What-“ I had been silenced with a fervent shake and words that, though I didn’t understand them, held the absolution of a physical blow. I was to be silent.     

 

I didn’t struggle as he led me to a large dwelling covered in animal skin. He’d shoved me inside, causing me to fall to the ground. I’d whimpered, trying to jerk to my feet and make a hasty retreat. But to where, and how? Before that had become a valid issue, the man casted a barrier over the doorway.

 

A mage! An Avvar mage!

 

Curtly, he turned toward me. “Do this!” he commanded, accent crushing the nuances of Orzammar Trade Speak. He made a fire in his fist.

 

I fell backward to escape the sudden burst of heat and magic. I was terribly cold, and being shoved into a warm dwelling had me burning. The fire he’d summoned seemed to reach across the room and eat at my flesh.

 

“I can’t!” I scooched further away from him.

 

“Must,” he grunted at me with finality. “Must know of _foundling_. Must know how much _foundling_ needs trained.”

 

“The Circle of Magi considers me a fully sanctioned member.” I promised, hoping he understood what I’d said both in context and in the language I’d spoken. “I’ve been through a Harrowing!”

 

He didn’t understand.

 

The burning hand was waved behind him, dissipating the flame. In the other he summoned frost. It coated his fist and crept up his forearm. “Do this,” he repeated his earlier phrase.

 

It wasn’t delivered with command this time. It was more of a conversational offer type of tone. He’d said it as though our discussion had gone along more conventional lines such as, ‘Oh, that’s not for you, then? How about you try this instead.’

 

“I- I cannot.”

 

“Needs much training,” he croaked disappointedly at me.

 

“I heal!” I excused my lack of ability with the very basics. “I use healing magic, that’s all.” My eyes warily watched as he sat in front of me, old bones creaking as he settled himself down with a wince. I continued in a lower tone of voice, noting his level of discomfort. “Creation magic. I can’t use primal spells safely.”  

 

There was no response. He just stared toward me, sweeping his wolf’s head hood back. I cringed further away, realizing that he wasn’t staring at anything. One of his eyes was milky and damaged beneath a scar that stretched from his middle forehead to his outer cheek toward his ear. The other was glazing with a heavy cataract. He was most assuredly blind.

 

We sat silently for an excessive amount of time. When it became clear that he had no further interest in speaking to me, I used some moments to my advantage. I got my breathing under control, positioning myself so as not to add damage to my wounded leg. The heat from a blazing fire pit behind the old man began to seep into my body, bringing with it the pain and weariness of all that had happened. I leaned back against a wooden support, suppressing further tears from escaping my eyes. I have very little explanation beyond blood loss and mental exhaustion to explain how I managed it, but before too long I was completely unconscious.            


	4. Rabbit in a Snare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! I did manage to get this updated much more quickly. I've tried switching points of view. Now, we'll have a visit to 3rd person limited with a focus on Cullen. Please let me know how it goes~ I need to give my thanks to several new people as well as stress my gratitude to a few I've mentioned before. MsMoon, stellamayjune, Littleredx3, and micizzle, an overwhelming wave of thanks! I appreciate all of your Bookmarks SO MUCH. Beepiary, Casums526, Siie, and amusewithaview, I adore you for your Kudos. I live off of them. O. e Well...not actually......but pretty much. ^~^ Also, I'm publishing this at 3 am. I tried to get all the typos, but I'm only one 19 year old woman.

“Can we not do this now?” the thane rumbled his request with all the delicacy of a thundercloud. It was just passed dawn, the foundling had only been present just over a full day, and he really did not have the time to listen to his sister’s complaints about not being trusted to see her settled into camp.

 

“No! We absolutely have to do this now, Cullen. He hasn’t let her leave that damned old hut in two days,” Mia stomped in front of her brother, disrupting his view of the sparring warriors.

 

His eyes shot down a glare which was equally met by the scowl that had haunted his childhood. Mia’s stance was wide, her face flushed with a blotchy shade of red creeping up her neck, and her fists were balled. She was near to the point of striking him.

 

The thane dropped his own foul look and sighed. “Mia, she is fine. It has been two nights and _one_ day. She needs to be cleared by the Augur. We have to know if she’s alright to interact with everyone in the clan. We can’t just let her roam about as she pleases. We don’t know anything about her- Oi!” He moved around his elder sister, catching one of the men with an incorrect hold on his polearm. “Straighten it up, Orson! You’re likely to cut off your own foot!”

 

  A swear was thrown back in his direction, and he debated how he was going inflict punishment upon the loudmouth. 

 

“Cullen!” Mia stepped directly into her brother’s line of sight again, jabbing him in the chest with two fingers. “I watched her with her group for _three_ weeks. Though she may have been trained by lowlanders, Winnie is a sufficient healer.”

 

His nostrils flared with an expression of distaste. “Winnie? What kind of a name is _Winnie_?”

 

Mia didn’t dawdle with irritation about Cullen’s frivolous judgement.  “I wouldn’t have brought her if we didn’t need her, Brother. Please,” she said this with peace offered in her tone. “We both know that sickness can’t take too many more before Greyed-Bear Hold is empty. She is safe, and she is kind. She also needs to begin looking at the sickness. She’ll be staying with us, and I am going to get her out of there with or without you. Today. Which will it be?” 

 

Cullen growled unintelligibly beneath his breath, accepting the things his sister said for the truths that they were. His clan had lost six children, two women, and five good men to the hacking sickness. Augur was old. His mind was too weak to recall the right magics for healing the sick and wounded, as it was too weak to identify the slighted God behind the miserable illness. The closest they had to a functioning healer was the Augur’s former wife, and Grandmother Eiri was magicless with only poultices and tonics to offer as potential solutions. The herbs hadn’t been working thus far. There were still four people confirmed to carry the sickness, three of them knocking on the Lady’s door.    

 

It seemed a positive act of the Gods that Mia had scouted a young healing mage with a weak party of five guards traveling straight past their current holding. On top of such fortune, the group was already being targeting by the troupe of bandits that had been conning travelers up and down the mountain. He should have been grateful, praising even! Though to which God, the thane was most wretchedly unsure. He knew that his sister believed that the healer had been spotted because the Lady of the Skies reflected her light in the glow of a healer’s hand, but he wasn’t so sure.  

 

Mia had sent her falcon back ahead the night before last, carrying a message that reported the bandits’ attack of the healer’s party. Everything had basically gone off without a hitch, or so it had seemed in the small letter tied to the bird’s leg. They’d gotten the healer without having to lift so much as a finger for her. 

 

Unfortunately, however, Cullen couldn’t let go of a niggling feeling in his gut. It was all just too convenient. If the Gods were so angered as to take the lives of children, why would they send a healer to help his people weather such punishment? Were the Gods working against one another? How involved in a divine argument did he want his clan to become?

 

Clearly, the Augur needed replacing. Cullen had never been one for interpreting and assigning acts to the Gods. It wasn’t a part of the position of thane, and it was all too disembodied for his liking. Once the Augur gave a name and suggested an act of appeasement, Cullen was excellent with solving troubles amongst his people and the Hallowed. This guessing game of pointing mortal fingers at holy beings was just too damn risky a practice for him to engage without the assistance of the proper spiritual compass that an Augur was meant to be.

 

This had been his main reason for ignoring the new healer. The moment he took her into his home, as was Mia’s insistence, the thane would align himself with an anonymous God who hadn’t bothered to clearly announce his claim upon the girl. Therefore, Cullen’s potential acceptance of the lowlander came along with an entire cask of unknowable consequences that he couldn’t even discuss with anyone, the Augur being as indisposed as he was. It could rain fire tomorrow, for all he knew.

 

It was too much, he decided, rubbing a lingering ache out of his temple. Cullen just wanted to oversee the development and training of the warriors, as well as partake in the mercifully uncomplicated worship of Hakkon. At least that would leave one God’s satisfaction certain.

 

“She needs clothes, Cullen.” Mia’s ardent mood assailed his repetitious thoughts. “Augur has left her in those dirty, ridiculous lowlander robes, and she’s likely to be on the edge of freezing to death. I can go get her from him, and you can go check my rabbit traps. Trade Isa whatever you find for some appropriate clothing.”

 

“What? Rabbit traps? Left in dirty clothes?” the thane pegged his sister with an accusatory look, his focus newly piqued toward their conversation. His voice lowered dangerously, developing from accusatory to angry. “How do _you_ know what he’s left her wearing? Were you _honestly_ sneaking around the Augur’s home?”

 

Mia burst with exasperation, dragging a hand through her hair and dislodging one of her falcon’s grey speckled tail feathers. “Well, somebody needed to check on her! The man is senile. He hasn’t even dressed her wound! I have no idea how you expected him to assess her.”

 

Cullen was utterly baffled by his sister’s lack of respect toward the current Augur. Granted, the man was ancient and clearly needed to pass the torch. However, as of this moment, he was still the holder of an important title worthy of reverence. Her mention of the healer being injured confused him as well.

 

“Wound? What wound?” he asked. 

 

Mia made an abrupt growly choking roar, shoving him back a few paces. Her hands swung out violently to his sides. “You never hear anything that’s said to you, Little Brother. Never! Winnie’s leg is gashed open, a bandit got to her before I could, and the Old Man just left her stewing in filthy clothes without so much as a decent bandage. I promised I’d get her out of there, _today_!”

 

“He wouldn’t-“ Cullen set his heels to begin a real fight, goaded by Mia’s push into a childish display of pointing his finger and invading her space.

 

“He did!” Mia cut-in. She swatted his hand, accepting her brother’s connotation of challenge by shoving her face rudely close to his. “I saw it with my own eyes last night. I’d planned on just walking by, maybe knocking and checking for progress. Then Winnie caught me at the door and _begged_ me to get her away from him. She’s gotten sick plenty too. I think her leg is growing infected. How’s that?!”

 

Her arms flung toward the sky, and she turned her back to Cullen, effectively avoiding any altercation that may have ensued due to her shoving. He had little interest in cuffing his sister as it was, much less with her back turned.

 

“I find us a healer,” Mia spat the words, “haul her half-way up the mountain, and the Augur lets her die of fester under his own roof!”

 

“She’s not dying of fester. It’s been a day,” this was said to his sister’s back.  

 

Cullen carefully smoothed the sardonic venom out of his comment. He gave another drawn out sigh, once more pressing circles into his temple. There was no reason to argue with her. As she’d already stated, Mia would have her way with or without his involvement. This was typical when it came to his older sister. What wasn’t expected was her level of concern. To risk the wrath of the Augur just to steal a peek at the new healer was certainly out of character. Mia was usually cautious and level headed, patient and willing to lend time.

 

Cullen made the choice to yield. He may as well conserve energy and use the tide instead of battling it. He didn’t want to be the one to go deal with the grumpy old man, so he selected the more solitary of the options.

 

“I’ll check the traps and do the trading. You get the healer patched up and to the house. The rabbit snares are set up to the northeast, yeah?”

 

Mia turned slowly, absolutely beaming. It was a look made sweeter for a lack of the war paint his sister had taken to wearing casually as well as the rarity of the expression. He hadn’t seen a smile so wide on her face since her marriage had ended. Losing to Mia's insistence was worth it, if only for the sake of seeing such happiness on her features.  

 

“Yes, Brother. Thank you!” she rushed forward and thumped his shoulder playfully. “I’ll take her to Grandmother Eiri first thing. Meet you at the house?” she’d begun trotting in the direction of the Augur’s home.

 

“Yeah…” Cullen muttered, realizing she wasn’t asking so much as directing while she loped away. “Yeah,” he drawled once more.  

 

A scowl sank over his face when he heard a pair of men approaching his back. Their footfalls were brazen, cocky even. Only two warriors would approach him making so much ruckus. Cullen hadn’t noticed when Orson and his twin had stopped scuffling, but he suspected that it had to do with mocking their thane’s easy fold. Cullen knew he’d technically lost, and their snide commentary on the whole affair was unwelcome. They’d absolutely ruin the small consolation he’d taken in making his sister smile.  

 

“Poor Thane,” Lyall, the slightly taller brother, began to muse.

 

As they came into view, Cullen knew that he’d have to keep himself from taking out his poor mood on the twins. Orson and Lyall were lanky, just past the cusp of manhood, and too young to realize that they weren’t half as funny as they considered themselves. The two were known for relentless teasing and practical jokes. It was unfortunate that their humor had matured as charmingly as their awkward limbs.

 

Orson finished Lyall’s sentiment. “ _Another_ woman in your house. At this rate, it’ll only be a matter of time before you’re ousted completely. What’ve you got now, three?”

 

The taller twin took back up the banter, falsely catching his breath dramatically. “Three indeed, dear Brother. He’ll need at least four, though. For now there are two sisters, a lowlander, and a bed as cold as ever.”

 

“You’re right, Lyall!” False cheer stressed Orson’s voice, making it crack. “At least one more woman… unless it’s not women he’s after for bed-warming.”

 

They shared a round of snickering.

 

Cullen snorted, rolling his eyes and squaring his shoulders. Perhaps his sister could bully him out of her way, but these two held no sway. He chose to ignore them, casually tossing back an order as he walked away. “Get to sparring, idiots. I have rabbits to gather and a woman to dress.”

 

 Only the faint laughter of the twins followed after him, which meant the rest of his warriors had found the boys as unamusing as usual. This knowledge cooled his ire. Plucking up the bunnies was simple. It was dealing with Isa An Jutka that was an uphill haul.

 

The woman was a hand taller than Cullen and made of stone. Isa was the most ruthless wielder of an ax the thane had ever seen, and her temper flared swifter than sparked tinder. She’d instructed Cullen for years while he was just a boy. He had great respect for the woman, and wondered just what sort of clothing she’d taken to making after giving up warring. He’d never worn any of her clothing, as she tended to make garments for adolescents the age of her own children. He knew that she wasn’t one for dyeing or weaving. It was rare that people two months from outgrowing new clothes required intricate or colorful designs.

 

“Only three rabbits, for an entire set of attire?” A disappointed glower accompanied Isa’s observations.

 

Cullen spied a pair of tiny eyes peering through the woman’s loose hair. It caught him off guard, to say the least.  

 

“They’re not even cleaned, Thane. The little vermin are still whole.”

 

For a moment, Cullen’s thoughts were wholly chaotic. Then he realized that Isa was wearing a sling wrapped about her to hold a child to her back. He hadn’t noticed an approximation of a human beneath the woman’s heavy shawl.

 

“I’ll not give if you won’t,” Isa said, drawing him fully back to her.

 

The little girl Cullen now recognized as Isa’s four year old niece leaned her head into plain view. “Yeah, Thane!” her manner incriminated as only a toddler’s could. “Trade fair!”

 

It was difficult to argue with that kind of logic, but Cullen didn’t want to dally with gutting the animals and trimming the skins from the flesh. He had never liked playing hunter, preferring instead to keep to his thoughts and weapon skills. It was somewhat senseless of a practice to even barter with the woman. If it were Brenna he’d needed work from, Cullen would have simply demanded the items from her. Irritation once more began to kindle in Cullen’s belly. Isa should have offered to clothe the healer of her own volition, graciously when her thane came knocking with an offer of meat and furs.  

 

“Alright,” Cullen pointed a finger at the little girl. He couldn’t remember her name at the moment. “I’ll give you the top of Mia’s next hunt,” he posed, hoping to get this bartering business over with quickly.

 

He’d never had a liking for trade either. Cullen’s ploy didn’t seem to do the trick. Isa still loomed down on him with disdain, and that hit the limit of what he was willing to take from this woman.

 

He dropped the playful shade he’d used toward the little one. “That’s the best you’ll get from me, An Jutka…” he warned.  

 

“Taken!” an ornery glint shone from the woman’s dark eyes. Isa knew she’d gotten more than she should have out of him, and Cullen was simply grateful that the twins weren’t around to make him regret it more than he already did.  

 

A pile of cloth and fur was tossed at him in exchange for the rabbits, and Isa instructed that he bring the pieces back for adjustments. Her niece echoed all of the overly commanding phrases that his former teacher had used toward him. The thane wondered morosely how exactly he was meant to deal with yet _another_ woman in his life. There were, frankly, far too many for his sanity as things stood.  

 

Cullen made an effort to hurry back to his home. It had taken over an hour to check and rebait the snares. Another large chunk of time was used heading toward Isa’s on the opposite side of camp. This supposedly simple chore had drug out far too long. Cullen suspected that he’d find a fuming Mia and a Rose cooing and petting at the healer as though she were one of the goatherd’s pups. It was likely to stay that way for a while as everyone settled in and the lowlander was taught their language.

 

Cullen was not looking forward to his foreseeable home life.

 

His expectation of at least three people would explain Cullen’s avid puzzlement with finding a lone figure, perched delicately by the hearth. The stranger he presumed to be the healer either hadn’t noticed his entrance, or didn’t care to turn and look. From her back, he could see that she was small, as he’d anticipated. Her teeth were chattering so violently that their clicks could be heard over the roaring fire. Shivering was expected of a lowlander, especially considering that her hair hung wet from a bath. Cullen could smell the wound scrub Grandmother Eiri used to prevent infection, and he wondered if her injured leg hadn’t been exaggerated. The girl was standing perfectly fine, or it seemed.

 

Something in her demeanor changed. Her shoulders rolled, hunching tighter into her frame. Still she did not turn to see that it was his staring making her uncomfortable. Cullen growled an announcement of his presence, wondering how exactly he was going to keep this foolish creature alive. She couldn’t be bothered to so much as take a glance over her shoulder with trepidation laving her spine. The mountain beasts were going to eat her up, if his people didn’t first.

 

The healer’s response to his sound was a squeak. Honest and true, a squeak. Like the rabbits he’d killed with his hands not three hours ago.  

 

Lady in her Starry Finery…

 

Cullen was completely at his end. What kind of a joke was this woman meant to be? He clearly didn’t have the wit for it.      


	5. It Just Doesn't Fit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah! Oh my GOD! There are so many people who've left me Kudos!!! I don't even know what to do with my life! Thanks to reisana_devlin, hukomuyo, ThatGeekyGirl, MyDaddyIsSuperman, saqqara08, LadyGraceGrey, and CatGnomes and the 17 guests who've left me love. Special thanks to my Bookmarks!!!! I love you guys so much. This update took forever, but I've also published an accompany drabble that will likely be folded into this story later. It has a little more flirtation and sexuality than this story is going to be able to support for a few chapters! If you'd like to check it out, here it is: http://archiveofourown.org/works/5027149

My sorrow and anxiety boiled forward, tears threatening to spill from my eyes. It was not Mia who had returned, but a large man. He was saying something to me, and I did not understand. I was naked as the day I was born beneath a wrap that had been thrown over my shoulders when we left the Grandmother’s house, and now there was a strange barbarian man shouting at me. As if the horror of being bathed and tended by an eccentric old woman and then dragged, barely clothed, through the entire camp hadn’t been enough.

 

He approached, and I stumbled away, nearly burning my bare foot on a hearthstone. The pain in my leg had lessened since the ointments and bandage had been applied, but my fumbling caused a wave of agony to sweep through me. I cried out, falling against a wooden support beam.

 

“Stay back!” I requested in Trade Speak, hoping he understood the language better than the old man had. I couldn’t gesture with my hands. One held my only covering in place while the other clung to my mother’s Andraste figurine. I’d only just managed to keep it hidden, fearing that they’d take it from me.

 

The man stopped immediately, blinking at me with shock and a bit of his own horror. “Be calm, Girl.” He stated this plainly, sopping up a portion of my immediate panic. “I bring you clothes.”

 

“Oh,” I sniffled, having begun to cry.

 

Neither of us made a move. Eventually, after what felt an extended period of tense silence, the man leaned forward, tossing the clothes at my feet. We stared at one another once more. He did not turn or imply that he was leaving, watching intently as I watched him.

 

His stature was the most striking thing about him. He towered over me, even at a distance. Mia was much larger than I as well, but it hadn’t seemed quite so malevolent when noted in her. His eyes and hair were wild, but familiar in their coloration and texture, as their resemblance to Mia’s was uncanny. He had no beard, which seemed unusual for an Avvar man.

 

“Well?” he prompted, motioning toward the clothes.

 

I balked. “I can’t put them on with you here!”

 

“What?” his face scrunched into a mask of confusion.

 

“You cannot be here when I dress,” I clarified, stunned that I’d needed to do so.

 

“I’ll have to be,” he announced. “I will be the one to take the clothes back to the seamstress for adjusting.”

 

“No!” I insisted, squishing myself against the beam and tugging the cloak around my body protectively.

 

Something in his expression brought back my panic. “Listen, Girl,” he took a large step forward. “I know lowlanders are odd with their bodies, but trust when I say, you’ve nothing to pique my interest. This is _my_ house, and you are in it. Put on the clothes, I’ll take them for adjusting, and I’ll be on my way. There are more important things for me to attend this day.”

 

He spoke more clearly and with less accent than Mia. He was the most fluent in Trade Speak yet. I was trembling, unwilling to expose any of me despite his insistence of no interest. If there was no interest, why did he need to watch?

 

“Turn your back,” I entreated. “Please.”

 

He glowered, glancing me up and down, then turned. I gave a gusty sigh of relief at his small yield, still shaken to my very core by the concept of changing with him in the room. I hadn’t been without at least three layers of clothing with a male so nearby since I was a toddler. This was _most_ inappropriate, but I was cold. Freezing, in fact. And refusing to put on clothes because I felt unsafe without them seemed the definition of insanity.

 

Eyes pinned to his back, I cautiously lowered and released the shawl around me so as to pick through the garments on the ground. I found what I recognized as small clothes very quickly, though, to my dismay, there was no breast wrap. I slid the underclothing on, wincing when I put weight on my bad leg and struggling to pull the fabric over my hips. My hair was frigid as it slapped wetly against my back. The shawl had been abandoned on the floor in my rush.

 

Next were a pair of leggings. They were soft, warm, and dark in color. They were also incredibly difficult to get onto my body with my bulky bandage. These clothes were running precariously on the small side, which would have been amusingly ironic, had I not been so vexed by the nakedness of my upper half. Giant people of the Frostbacks, each easily twice my size, with no clothes to fit me.

 

My body was on the round side, but I wasn’t rotund. This was ridiculous.

 

A long, wide, and wispy piece of fabric confused me for a small moment. I then recognized the leather ties at its edges and wrapped it around my waist, belting it tightly. It was a skirt. What seemed meant to be a loose fitting linen shirt with long sleeves was the only under layer provided for my torso, and it clung. Very little of my shape was left to the imagination. A strip of my belly was exposed because the hem of the shirt was too short to meet the waist of the skirt, and my wrists were completely bare, the sleeves not long enough to cover all of my forearms.

 

The only thing left was a fur-lined vest, clearly meant to be a warming layer. I snatched it up, suspecting that its size would be too small to accommodate me. I tried anyhow, refusing for my body to be left so obvious. The tightness of it across my shoulders was ignored. I stubbornly began fighting the buttons into place.

 

I lost.

 

“Are you alright?” he asked suddenly, sounding quite puzzled.

 

Had I been making noise? “Ugh…”

 

“I’m turning around,” this was declared in the process of the action.

 

His eyes immediately landed on my chest, bulging through the tight vest against the clinging linen shift. My arms crossed defensively over my breasts, shielding them from his rude view. He leaned to the side, still appraising the shape of my body. I wilted beneath the boorish gaze. And then, offending me despite my better judgement, he laughed.

 

“I was lied to!” he pointed at me.

 

My face felt as though it were on fire, and I was confused by my wounded pride. “What?”

 

“You’re not girl-shaped, Healer.” He pulled his hand, palm against chest, straight down. I bristled. “You’re woman-shaped.” He stared at my arms. “ _Really_ woman-shaped.”

 

I gasped, sounding exactly like my mother had when my father mumbled something during a sermon. How _very_ inappropriate.

 

“Stop looking!” I stomped my foot, distressed beyond reason. A wave of pain swept though my body, having put my weight on my bad leg in the middle of my tantrum. 

 

“But I must look,” he sniggered at me. “I have to be the one to find clothes that fit you.”

 

“That does not require you to see!”

 

“It does,” he argued. “Why are you so upset by this?”

 

“No. No. No!” I shook my head, doing my best to flatten my chest with my arms. “We do not talk about it, and we do not look!”

 

“It’s there, though. Yes?” he was still laughing at me.

 

“Sh!” I tried to silence him.

 

“If it is there, it must be accommodated both in terms of being viewed and being clothed. How am I not to look?” he quizzed. “How do you not acknowledge your body?”

 

“ _Shh_!” I hissed.

 

Where was Mia?!         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one doesn't feel quite finished... :/


	6. What Kind of Taking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! FINALLY! And I weep for my people!!! So sorry this has taken me so long! I promise that I have not forgotten this story! It is still WIP! I swear it! Thanks go out to all of my Kudos! All of you who've stayed with me so long, and to all of the new Kudos: specifically MissK, Miss_ragdoll84, zephyrine, Sophiieesticated, Archer_Roux, and MonoChrome in addition to the 29 guests who've left love. The comments that you wonderful readers have left gave me life! I'm sorry this chapter doesn't feature Mia again, and I promise, I'm going to begin an update schedule now! I swear it!!!! <3

Strands of my hair had frozen together while the man led me back across the camp. It hung in stringy clumps all the way to my waist. Miserably cold trickles of water shivered down my body as it thawed in the warm home of the seamstress. I had never been so uncomfortable in all of my life. My arms were the only barrier keeping the majority of my breasts from the eyes of the woman before me. They didn’t fit completely behind my crossed arms. They either bulged from the top or attempted an escape from the bottom, stupid fatty things.

Why?

Why was there _so_ much of me?

An order was barked in their language, and the motion that the woman gave (straightening her arms at her sides) provided the meaning behind it. I sighed, willing to relent for the sake of acquiring some clothing. 

By Andraste’s sweet mercy, the man had waited outside.

The construction of the Avvar houses was peculiar: at least insomuch as that there _was_ construction. I had always heard of the Avvar as wandering tribes. Not quite like the savage Dalish with their aravels and navigating beasts, but certainly the human equivalent of such peoples.

The houses were round things, stonework fit neatly together to form solid wind-locked bases. Walls of wooden planks not too unlike those in normal peasant homes ringed the upper portions of the dwellings. Animal skins, for insulation as well as a visual statement of some kind, were secured around the wooden bits both inside and outside of the walls. The stones were left bare. The seamstress’ house was much smaller than the home in which Mia had left me, or those belonging to the Grandmother. The general construct, however, was very similar. The homes dug into the ground, the lowest portion being the equivalent of a common room. In this center was a large open hearth. Wide steps that could also serve as benches, indicated by the furs laid out upon them, were carved into the earth. In the outer, upper most ring of the home several sections that I assumed to be bedrooms were blocked off by curtains of heavy fabric and yet _more_ hanging furs. Wooden support beams scattered strategically throughout the dwelling held the thatched roof in place. In this home, tables and chests cluttered several layers of the stairs with cloth and clothing in various stages of disarray and completion. The little work area was orderly, in spite of it being spread so strangely in the foreign architecture. In the last house, a messy clutter of various belongings had left me confused as to the occupant’s occupation, but there was no confusing this woman’s business.       

I was pulled from my thoughts as the dark-haired woman’s calloused thumbs brushed at the underside of my breasts. I was startled and sorely bashful, having never been measured without the modesty afforded to me by a shift. She did not take notice of my distress, or did not care. She held out her arm a small distance away from me, as though appraising the whole of what was needed to accommodate my dimensions. She huffed, stepping back and looking me up and down.

At least I’d gotten to keep all of my lower clothes. She’d also given me a pair of woolen stockings as thick as a piece of cake. The plush cloth immediately eased the sharp pains left on the soles of my feet after trekking around the Avvar hold barefoot. It was a touch prickly to feel the hot tingles of blood rushing back into my toes.

The woman turned her back to me, bending to root through a chest full of fabric. When she was satisfied with a piece of cloth, she walked behind me and slapped at the underside of my drooping arms so that I straightened them again. A soft fabric, much like the wispy skirt, started wrapping around my torso. After the initial layers were in place, the woman asked me a question in their language. I did not understand, and responded with a very intelligent shrug. She huffed, sounding put upon, and redoubled the efforts of her wrapping. She made the breast band tight. Tighter than I’d ever been bound, even in a corset. While it was a bit painful initially, it was also somehow reassuring. I was feeling overly exposed on many, _many_ levels. Having my ridiculous chest squished down to a reasonable size was a strange comfort.

The woman stepped away from me, appraising her work. She’d looped the ends up over my shoulders. I could feel the heavy knot in the fabric at the back of my neck, and I was worried that the pressure of it would become an irritant very shortly. For now, however, it added to my confused and growing sense of security. It was a very firm knot.

 The woman turned back toward her workstation with a grunt, only to trip over the many scraps of cloth she’d tossed onto the floor in the violence of her search for the piece of fabric that was now my make-shift breast band. She caught herself before falling with a hiss that I am sure was an expletive, then fumbled her way to the farthest table. While picking through completed pieces of clothing on the workbench, she wrangled some of the cloth occupying the floor onto the surface of her foot. They were then kicked back into the gaping chest with a casual flick of her ankle.

I took that as a cue. She was clothing me, after all. And rather intimidating. It seemed a chore to accommodate me. The least I could do was help pick up. I tentatively stepped forward, kneeling gingerly on my sore leg to gather the many random scraps and place them back into the chest. There didn’t seem to be any order to them, and I was not reprimanded for the action. She did comment when I stood after tidying the floor, and though I did not understand her, I could tell that she was surprised: perhaps even a bit pleased. As if to confirm my suspicions, she trudged over to me and reached down to pat my head.

This woman was even taller than the beardless man.   

I forced my lips to curl into a demure smile. Thus far, the women of the Avvar had proven to be much preferable to the men. That was not so unlike the happenings in the Ostwick Circle. Though our First Enchanter had been female, the patriarchal traditions of the Free Marches governed power structures within the tower thoroughly. I found it exhausting to deal with men who were not being paid to keep me safe. Judging by the interactions I’d had with the men in this tribe, it seemed that my tendencies stretched to this dynamic as well. It would be the women then, to whom I made my appeals toward being traded back to my family.

Now, if only I could find my way back to Mia.

The rest of my outfit was put together swiftly. A sweater, heavy, gray, and made of the softest wool, was pulled over a long-sleeved cotton undershirt that the woman had tugged over my head as though I was incapable of dressing myself. Another rabbit fur vest, larger this time, was placed over the sweater. Gloves, boots, and a fantastically warm parka were tied about the necessary places with the sort of ease and efficiency that I’d expect of tailors from Val Royeaux. When all was said and done, I was a bundle of dull grays and blues, the woman had braided my hair back into a tidy pleat, and warmth had rushed back into all of my extremities. My cheeks felt flush, and a genuine smile spread over my face in spite of the persistent ache in my leg.

I thanked her profusely in Trade Speak and earned myself another pat on the head as well as a pile of soft cotton that I assumed would be my sleeping clothes. When I emerged from the seamstress’ hut, she was right beside me. As soon as her eyes fell upon him, she started barking things at the beardless man in the sort of tone that I inevitably associate with agitated mothers. The man, to his credit, looked appropriately cowed by her harsh scolding.

The woman’s arm wrapped around my shoulders suddenly, squeezing me so tightly that a little yip escaped my throat. She stopped speaking at the sound, looked down at me, then gestured violently toward me with another torrent of words. The man held up his hands in defeat, reaching out and grabbing my forearm to tug me away from the woman. When we were a few paces beyond, with the seamstress’ voice still booming something or another, I asked the man what was going on.

“Why is she so angry?” My voice was worried. “What is she saying?”

He sighed, throwing a gesture behind him that I could not see. By the sputtering outrage and loud rebuttal, I assumed it was a rude gesture. “She’s going on about my having mistreated you, and you being one of the most adorable children she’s ever seen. Something like that.”

I blinked, moved by the seemingly fierce worry that the seamstress had felt for me. I did not ask any more questions, instead turning to wave back at the woman. She waved in kind. Our jaunt back to the large house went quickly and more pleasantly with the additions of the warm clothes and boots.

We entered, and before I could enjoy a breath of warm air, a rush of fluttering hands and curls greeted me. It was a woman, smaller than Mia, but larger still than myself. If I could wager beyond all of her squirming, I’d guess that my forehead came to her chin. Words gushed from the excitable creature at an alarming rate. She was speaking to the man in their language, and it took me several moments to catch her attention. I meant to request that she remove her hands from my hair and clothing, but her stare caught me off-guard.  

I don’t know why I’d expected to see more brown. Somehow, my mind had decided that I would see more golden eyes staring down at me. However, this woman’s eyes were blue. Different from Mia and the man where her hair was made up of the same tousled ringlets. Her gaze was joyful and bright, like the smile beaming from her face. She said something else, looking at me expectantly. I did not know what she wanted and so continued to stare blankly back at her.

“Rose hears the Dwarven words, but she does not speak them well.”

The man drawled as a hand reached forward and pushed the blue-eyed woman away from me a bit. Her chest puffed indignantly, and she spit a cross turn of phrase at him. He replied in a nonplussed fashion that caused the woman to look all the more insulted. I could now see around the cloud of blonde curls and laughing eyes at the dwelling once more.

It was an absolute mess.

I hadn’t realized before, as I was too focused on my near nakedness and bustling toward the hearth.

Heaps of things were thrown about haphazardly. Clothing, furs, cooking pots, jugs, crocks, and numerous weapons lingered on the various layers of the stair-like descent toward the spacious, round common room. While that was mostly cleared, I suspected that it only appeared that way because someone had just tossed everything that had been collected down on the lowest level vaguely toward the personal rooms in which they belonged.

The man began walking toward the fire, dragging the protesting blue-eyed woman, Rose, with him. I followed, careful of my wounded leg as I lowered myself over the cusps of the wide sections. They both sat on the far end of the fire, and I settled down across from them. The silence became thick quickly. Feeling more confident and comfortable with my leg tended and clothes covering me from head to toe, I attempted to initiate some sort of conversation.

“Rose,” I began, looking at the woman. Where her eyes had dulled with her irritation toward the man, they brightened back up as she looked at me. “My name is Anwen. People call me Winnie.”

“Winnie!” she echoed, giving a small bounce.

I recoiled a bit, shocked by the squealy burst that she’d made of my name. The man sniggered, tossing a heavy log onto the fire and causing sparks to spit toward all of us.

“We already know your name,” he said, poking at the fire in a distracted sort of way. “Mia’s been sure to tell everyone everything she can manage.”

“Oh,” I said in a wispy voice, somewhat deflated by his dismissal of my polite opening. “Well, I don’t know your name…” the question was in my tone.

Rose gasped in horror, then reached over and struck the back of the man’s head with a meaty _smack_! He swore, and she began peppering him with all sorts of sentiments that I am sure were most unkind. He defended himself, and the two locked into a spat that lasted a good few minutes. They began to escalate, shoving at one another after Rose delivered another chastising slap to his shoulder.

“Um,” I interjected, realizing that this could go on for quite some time. “I did not mean to say something upsetting.”

“It wasn’t what you said,” he growled in response, eyes still locked onto the woman. “My sister thinks that I’ve done you a wrong in not giving you my name. I disagree. I assumed that Mia had explained that she lived in her brother’s home, and that you’d be here too.” His eyes darted over to me. “At least until someone else offers to take you.”

“What?” I squeaked.

Take me? Take me where? Why?

_What kind of taking?_

Seeing that I was disturbed by this revelation, Rose huffed loudly, then began to communicate with me in broken Trade Speak. “Brother is bad. Not say much, only broods.”

This earned her a scoff and a glare from the man. She stuck her tongue out at him. When her eyes met mine again, it was plain to see that most of the frustration from their little tiff had disappeared as easily as it had arrived.

She began again, “Brother is called Cullen. He is thane.”

She was quite intelligible. I could not understand why the man had said she couldn’t speak well. Perhaps she could clarify what was meant by ‘someone else offers to take you.’ Wanting a gateway question back into that worrisome topic, I asked, “What is a thane?”

“The leader,” Cullen answered easily. “The chieftain. I am the one in charge of this tribe.”

My tongue felt swollen, but I managed a weak, “Oh.”

I felt myself blanch. Somehow, having spent the small amount of time with this man that I had, I doubted his amicability toward ransoming me home to my parents.        


	7. This Game of Eggshells

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, I've been wanting to update this every two weeks. I just BARELY made it tonight. Actually, I think it has been precisely 14 days since my last update... so.... yeah. Meeting goals! Also, I tried a thing with the languages. The Avvari language is in italics, but Trade Speak is just in plain text. Hopefully it's not too weird or confusing. Also, just a warning, this chapter is kinda' short! Sorry. I promise, the next one has some really cool stuffs. Angsty-type-poor sickie things... but cool. Please let me know what you think, and also if the language thing was a bust. I'm really not too sure about it. 
> 
> Shout out to my KUDOS! Gwerian, Leasalla, ZombieBabs, randomcassie8, tezsuckseggs, Seaweedinapile, and LyricalGibbon as well as the 36 guests who have left me lovens! Thank you so much. It really means to world to me that you guys are enjoying this story. Also, I promise to stop my overuse of exclamation points in my notes. I'm sure that's annoying as shit.  
> O .O

“I can’t promise that I’ll be able to cure them,” the lowlander whispered.

Her voice was quiet and garbled, as though struggling through a wad of cotton clenched between her teeth. It was obvious that she was unaccustomed to saying this, which, he supposed, was a good sign. The little Winnie tried to continue boldly, her jaw jutting forward in a stubborn expression.

“It sounds like an infection in their lungs, and that can be difficult to manage in the _early_ stages. If your people are dying of this, I-” she faltered again.

Her fingertips had fluttered down to the tabletop between them. It was as though she meant to form a more expressive gesture of connection, perhaps to reach for him, but instead she clicked her nails against the wood as she composed herself. She turned her attention to Mia, more trusted by the girl than he.

“I will do whatever I can to make them better, but I cannot assure you that they will be made well.”

“I agree,” said Cullen, as though her limitations had been delivered as the conditions of a trading arrangement. He spoke with startling volume when compared to the girl. She’d jumped at his acknowledgement. “We can go now?” he prompted.

“I-I’ve just told you that your people may die in spite of my efforts.” Her brow was knit, and there was a skittish quiver to the tone of her voice. Cullen frowned. “There’s not to be-“ she cleared her throat. Her eyes went back to Mia. “That is to say, you’re not going to… to hurt me if I can’t fix them?”

“Hurt you?” Mia was shocked. The offense in his sister’s reaction was plain. Plain enough for the lowlander to hear it too.

She’d flinched at the sound, shrinking away as Mia huffed and smacked her hands on the table. It was an involuntary and completely understandable display of frustration in the face of such an accusatory comment. A disgruntled and somewhat mocking sound escaped Cullen’s throat. Such a foolish little girl. He still had difficulty believing she’d manage to heal anyone at all. It wasn’t helping her position in his eye to continue cowering and pouting at every turn either. Anything they did caused her upset. Every word, act, and attempted kindness that he and his people had given the lowlander went without gratitude.  

She’d lived amongst them for over a full week. Her nose was upturned at the meals offered to her. She’d thrown a full fit when asked to sacrifice to Rilla’s fire. It distressed her to share a bed with his younger sister. She outright refused to bathe in the company of anyone else at all. Her leg, even with the aid of the healings she aimed toward herself, was still not entirely better…

Just as he’d feared, it seemed that she would prove more of a burden than a help. And still! She was in no danger from them. That much, at least, he had assumed she’d gathered from the last week.

“We’ll not hurt you for failure,” Cullen grunted, his expression tight with irritation. “If those who are sick are too far gone, than you will see to those who catch it in the future.”

The healer blanched. The color of her round little nose and cheeks slipped suddenly from rosy to pallid. Her lips looked ashen in the candlelight as she began to gnaw violently on an angry scab she’d worn into her lower lip with the nasty habit. She took a deep breath, sent a guilty glance at Mia’s wounded expression, and cautiously engaged Cullen directly. “The future? Do you plan to keep me here indefinitely?”

With a nod, he stated a simple, “Yes.”

Her hand slapped over her mouth to stifle a breathy sob. Big dark eyes grew pitifully wide, brimming with tears. The lowlander dug her nails into the flesh of her cheeks as though desperately trying to contain the cry that was beginning to spill down her face.

Cullen recoiled, entirely thrown out of sorts by the unexpected onset of tears. He’d seen the girl cry only once, and that was when he’d first found her dripping, cold, and alone by the hearth in his home. He looked to Mia, alarmed, and hoped that his sister would have some answers. He found outrage awaiting him, and a sharp slap to his shoulder.

“Why did you say it that way?” she hissed, slipping out of trade speak to berate him.

“What way?” He threw another distressed look at the healer, who was now face down against the table, panting through what seemed to be some sort of emotional attack. “What did I say?”

“Oh, Cullen!” Mia dug her fingers into her temples. “No one’s told her that she’s… well… that we’ve decided to keep her.”

“I should think that would have been obvious after all the trouble we’ve gone to.”

“Cullen!”

“What?”

“Have a care!” Mia struck his shoulder again. “She is young, and alone among us. It was apparent that she’d assumed healing our sick was as good as a path out of the hold. It would have served us well to slowly inform her of her position here. Now, well,” Mia scoffed, motioning to the sniffling huddle across the table. “Now she feels trapped and melancholy.”

“Trapped?” At that, Cullen became the outraged one.

“You’re not trapped here,” he addressed the healer in the language they shared. “You can go whenever you like.”

“What?” Mia’s voice was flat with disbelief.

“What?” The lowlander lifted her face.

What had been pallid was flush once more due to the force of her tears. Her lip was swollen and bleeding, and her nose was running. She looked at him with the saddest glint of hope.

“Of course you’re not,” he growled, snagging his ale from the table with a vicious swipe. “You can leave whenever you’d like. We’re not going to _confine_ you among us.” Cullen took a large gulp from his cup. “We’re also not going to see to your departure.”

Her face fell. “What?” she repeated in a much more deflated tone.

“No.” Cullen shook his head. “If you’d like to leave, you’re more than welcome to take what things are yours and depart, but mine and I will remain in our hold.”

“Cullen,” Mia spoke in a warning undertone. “ _You are being cruel._ ”

“I am being honest!” he snarled. “I tire of this game of eggshells!” He slammed his heavy mug on the table. “You, Lowlander,” he pointed at her. She lurched back in her seat, now both distraught and frightened by his aggression. “You are welcome to stay, not among my people, but as one. I will insure that you are fed, warm, and safe in return for your efforts to see that our hold is healthy and kept. If you will not abide this, you can get out.”

She’d started to sniffle again. “W-where will I go?”

The regret from his outburst was already welling within him. Cullen had not intended to go about this in such a flagrant way, and Mia was not wrong in that it was a touch cruel. Even acknowledging this, Cullen hardened himself to it. He narrowed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and rumbled a menacing answer.

“That is not my problem.”

The girl hiccupped. She sniffled a bit longer and worried at her lip some more. Mia sat stiff beside him. Her disapproval hung in the air like an icy fog. The uncomfortable silence stretched on long enough for Cullen to finish his ale. Just as he was on the fringe of offering something akin to an apology, the healer spoke.

“I will die if I leave…” the statement was spoken with an upward tilt, almost as though it was a question.

He nodded at her, recognizing that outcome to be more likely than not.

“I will stay,” she said.

The stubborn hold was back to her jaw, and she’d settled herself. While still blotchy and overly reddened, she appeared quite calm. The lowlander met Cullen’s eye with an edge that he had not seen in her before. Eagerness burned beneath a stare that was held boldly, evenly. It was as though she glared at a challenge, excited and resigned all at once. He cocked his head, raising a brow at the sudden turn of her emotions.

Mia breezed an interruption. “Good. S’a happy thing to keep you, Winnie. We need you.” Mia’s foot connected with Cullen’s ankle under the table. Save for the grunt of pain that escaped him, he pretended that it had not happened. “And it is sweet to have you with us.”  


End file.
